


Worship

by acrosspontneuf (FangedAngel)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Asexual Character, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-09 18:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20123017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/pseuds/acrosspontneuf
Summary: Zevran thinks of her magic, of the ice and the cold, and then he presses his lips to the inside of her wrist, worshipful and unable to speak and so very far from the person he’d used to be, long ago.





	Worship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sternenstaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sternenstaub/gifts).

> Set during Origins. Written as a trade fic for the [amazing](https://sternenstaub28.tumblr.com) [Stern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sternenstaub/works).  
Featuring: Stern's magical and amazing [Bellanaris Surana](https://sternenstaub28.tumblr.com/tagged/Bellanaris-surana), a very different take than my usual on Zevran (he's very vulnerable with a massive inferiority complex in this), me finally getting to write an ace character, and the usual rambly stream of consciousness style.
> 
> *mi bendición = my blessing.

After the Circle, they are all particularly weary when they make camp far on the lake’s shore, and Zevran takes advantage of the general gloom to sit alone by the fire, burning lemongrass over the flames to ward off insects.

Despite the unusual flutter in his chest and the lack of inclination for idle chat, he is as aware of her as always, of the way fragments of her hushed voice reach him from where she’s telling Sten (who’s only as surly as he ever is) the legends of Lake Calenhad.

At first, that awareness was influenced by his training: observing Bellanaris, his erstwhile mark, in those first fragile weeks had been a matter of self-preservation, learning her movements in battle and hunting for weaknesses in case she’d change her mind. Later, before he realised, his awareness of her became inevitable.

On this strange night, she moves away from Sten, light-footed and lost in thought, her hair pulled up, the ends dampened by sweet water. The rest of the camp is now as silent as Zevran, and he watches as Bella seems to turn towards her own tent before catching his eye and the way he’s watching her, the same way he should know how to hide.

When she sits next to him, Zevran’s face feels as warm as his fire-warmed fingertips, and he tosses the rest of the lemongrass into the flames, stealing glances at her.

Bella says nothing, content to stare into the fire like it holds secrets that it speaks only to her. She doesn’t comment on his staring, and Zevran stops even attempting to keep it hidden.

The silence stretches between them, comfortable and safe, and Zevran wonders, not for the first time, whether her magic also has the ability to reach inside him and soothe him, or if it’s her general presence that calms him.

The firelight illuminates her skin in golden and rose hues, and Zevran finds himself once more making a study of her elegant hands, of the way she rolls her wrist with a grimace, almost an absent-minded gesture, because she’s been spending too much time knitting again.

After long moments of stillness, Bella loosens her hair, and Zevran has to make an effort to catch his breath, because the fire finds the hidden nuance of red in the gold, and her hair smells of pine firewood, of lemongrass, of the Orlesian soap Leliana gifted her with much fanfare earlier in their expedition.

The moment feels almost too precious, and Zevran feels he ought to curse his unworthy eyes for gazing upon her like this, but he can’t stop looking, and there are no gods worshipped across Thedas that could stop him.

When she looks away from the fire to meet his gaze, Zevran wonders what she sees, what she thinks, but she says nothing, the smallest of smiles curving the corner of her own mouth, her eyes inescapable.

Before he knows it, Bella takes his hand in hers, and her skin is chilled against the warmth of his. Zevran thinks of her magic, of the ice and the cold, and then he presses his lips to the inside of her wrist, worshipful and unable to speak and so very far from the person he’d used to be, long ago.

He is aware of how unworthy he is, even as she cups his cheek with her open palm, but he is greedy in his devotion. He says nothing, offers no warnings of the mistake she’s making. Instead, he lets his forehead linger against her temple, and they continue leaning against each other in the silence, the fire their witness until it fades into embers that do nothing against the humid chill in the air.

—

Their hands find each other on the road, indiscreet and open in their affection, but no one says anything and the mood all across their party is lighter than it’s been in months. Bella smiles at him frequently, that soft, small smile that she shows no one else, and Zevran’s heart is full, but his mind whispers of his lack of worth, and it would keep him from reaching for her hand if he weren’t so overwhelmed with the need to hold on to her.

They find themselves talking to each other deep into the night when the rest of the party have gone to sleep, their fingers tangled together and their foreheads pressed together, and Zevran finds himself telling her everything about himself. It is terrifying to be so open, but he has to be honest with her, has to let her know exactly what she’s getting into, but Bella is unfazed by the ugliness in his words.

She wraps him up in the blanket that she knit especially for him, and holds him in a way that makes him feel like there must be something good about him, like he can see for just a moment what Bella sees in him. The moment always vanishes, but what doesn’t vanish is the fact that Zevran gets to wake up next to her. He gets to be the one to comfort her after the nightmares, and the one to hold her hand throughout the night.

On another night that seems much like any other, Bella can’t bring herself to meet his eyes, and Zevran thinks _this is it_. While she makes her evening rounds, he hides in their- in _her_ tent, wrapped up in the blanket. If he holds on hard enough to the soft material, he can successfully pretend that his hands aren’t shaking. His mind, helpful as ever, can find no humorous deflection and insists on reminding him, in great detail, how unworthy and undeserving he is. He thinks of all his past mistakes and the blood on his hands, the same hands he used to hold hers.

It is late by the time Bella walks into the tent, all of her movements hesitant. There’s not enough space to stand, so she leaves her staff leaning against a corner and sits down next to Zevran. The touch of her cold hand on his makes him jump, and he braces himself for rejection, buries down all thoughts of the future he could have had with her (Antiva, sea breeze, home).

When she says ‘I can’t give you what you need’, it takes Zevran too long to understand the words, but they still make no sense. Bella is holding on to him, but her breath stutters, and icy tendrils of magic make their way down her arm, onto her hand, and then onto Zevran’s.

‘Bella-‘ he starts, his accent curling haltingly around her name, but her grip on his hand tightens and he knows that she needs to be the one to speak in this moment.

She still can’t look at him, even as the words spill from her mouth.

‘There are things I can’t give you, things you’re accustomed to, and I can’t…I don’t think you understand who I am, Zevran. You should find someone else, someone like you.’

Zevran does not understand, until he does, and then all he can think is ‘how do you not know that holding your hand is everything to me?’ and then he tells her. He tells Bella that he is unworthy of even a glance from her, that he needs nothing else from her than her smile, and the way she holds him, the way she kisses his cheek, the scent of her hair.

Bella shakes her head at him, waves off the way he speaks of himself, watches him, again, like his existence somehow has meaning. Zevran disagrees with what she sees, but he understands now, the helplessness of watching someone beloved believing themselves inferior, so he kisses her hand again, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, the magic whispering around them both.

‘I pledged my life to you already,’ he says, his gaze and words steady, because she has taught him the meaning of bravery, ‘and you’ve always had my heart, mi bendición. I am yours for as long as you will have me, and I will love you beyond life itself. I am making no sacrifices. You should be the one to reconsider.’

Bella presses her forehead to his, her eyes ablaze with that icy cold blue he loves so much, and he is reminded once more of how strong she is.

Her breath fans coldly across his skin, and when she says ‘it seems like neither of us are renouncing each other’, it sounds like a vow. It sounds like forever.


End file.
